He registered, standing in the corridor, the movement towards him and turned slightly; Samuel watched Ginevra Blackwood approach through the crowd and smiled at the half-truth of her words. The lights of the opera house gathered in her hair and then in the many facets of her emerald-colored gown and on the jewelry; he saw also, almost opening up on the ground at their feet, the class divide between them.
“Why not?” he asked, ignoring how he ought to act infront of her. From the flippancy and familiarity of that response, he then slipped into his manners as if donning a coat that he had improperly been caught without. He gently took her hand and inclined towards a slight bow.
“Miss Blackwood, delighted that our paths should cross again.”
There was an air of easy amusement about him now, as he let go of her hand, straightened himself up, and looked her up and down, taking note of the absence of family members and chaperones in her vicinity.
The jewel of the mighty Blackwoods was either quite adept at the art of escape, or the keepers of her were doing a poor job. Presently, he thought it to be the former, or perhaps it was both.
“And to meet in a much more pleasant place,” he added.

The voice of the soprano was climbing to new heights in the background of their conversation. All around them was the colorful bustle of Paris society, its many sharp and inquisitive eyes that did not linger on them, because to this city they were strangers.
“Did you return to Paris to continue the explorations you were telling me about before we regrettably got interrupted?”